


Serial Kisser

by JuliaJekyll



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crushes, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Johnlock Fluff, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Secret Crush, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2864459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock mulls over his feelings for John and decides to confess them. How will John respond? Can be read as a sort of sequel to The Little Touches, but you don't need to have read that to understand this (I'd love it if you did, though!). Not sure how many chapters there will be, but the rating may go up. Comments are my lifeblood!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thoughts

If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes despised, it was having his intellect overshadowed by other, more primitive, and frankly boring things. This was the reason why he didn't eat while he was on cases, why he considered himself married to his work, and why he never allowed anything as banal as feelings to hinder him in his intellectual pursuits. His elder brother, Mycroft, was similar: though he knew everyone of note in England and beyond, he was close to no one.

  
Or at least, Sherlock and Mycroft had been similar in that regard, until that damnable, frustrating, painfully ordinary, and somehow bloody amazing John Watson had limped into Sherlock's life. Now he was crushed under the weight of a thousand thoughts about the man, a thousand memories of tiny moments that had seemed unremarkable at the time but deeply significant now, and a thousand tiny flutters of feeling that had built up into an ache of desire for more, more, more.

  
For the first time in his life, Sherlock wanted more out of his relationship with another human being. His relationship with John already involved more sentiment than Sherlock was ordinarily prepared to invest in one person, and now this. These sorts of feelings were so unfamiliar to Sherlock that he wasn't even exactly sure what it was he wanted, but he knew it went beyond the boundaries of friendship.

  
He wasn't struggling with his sexuality as he knew John was. John was constantly insisting that he wasn't gay when people insinuated that he and Sherlock were a couple, but those sorts of insinuations had never bothered Sherlock overly, even before he'd started having these alien feelings toward his ex-military flatmate. It had never been particularly important to him if other people believed trivial things about him that were false. But lately it had begun to bother him a bit whenever John was particularly adamant about his lack of romantic feelings for Sherlock. Strange thoughts had begun to go through his mind when he heard such denials: well, why not? Wouldn't you want to be involved with me? Why do you have to act as if there could never possibly be anything between us?

  
The thoughts were so overly dramatic, it made Sherlock roll his eyes behind his closed eyelids just to remember having had them. He was lying on the couch in 221B, hands steepled under his chin, almost meditating on thoughts of the absent John.

  
No, there would be no sexual identity crisis for Sherlock. He'd never seen a need to label his sexuality, since sex was boring and he didn't dwell on it, so the fact that the first person he'd had romantic feelings for was a man neither upset nor particularly surprised him. It simply was what it was. What concerned him far more was the massive overdose of sentiment for a single individual, regardless of that individual's gender identity.

The logical part of Sherlock's mind wanted him to ignore his feelings, but the human part, the part he couldn't seem to silence no matter how hard he tried, was pushing him to get closer to John.

  
Always the analyst, Sherlock began trying to break down the reasons why he felt so cursedly strongly for the other man. First, the commonalities: like Sherlock, John was a man of science who preferred to live his life with a certain element of danger.

  
“Important, of course,” Sherlock murmured to himself, “but the differences outweigh the similarities.”

  
They certainly did. Where Sherlock strove not only to _show_ but to _have_ as little emotion as possible, John wore his heart on his sleeve. He was kind, caring, and compassionate, where Sherlock was aloof and distant. John, though respectably intelligent, had no real genius to speak of, while Sherlock was brilliant and had no qualms about showing it. John had emotional intelligence, where Sherlock could barely read social cues and tended to disregard them even when he could. They were opposites in a thousand little ways, which was why they worked so well together.

  
Could it also serve to give them a foundation for a romantic relationship? Sherlock didn't know, and there was no way he could find out unless he brought John into the experiment, and that would require telling John how he felt.

  
“John wouldn't like me calling it an experiment,” Sherlock mused softly, thinking out loud. “These things have to be about _feelings_.” He rubbed his temples lightly. His feelings for John must be something truly major if he was accepting the notion of letting emotion rule him in this department. John was an emotional man, and if Sherlock wanted him, he would have to be emotional too, as much as he was able.

  
And God help him, he did want him. He wanted everything John Watson would be willing to give him. It was a betrayal of all his principles to abandon logic in so callous a way, but sentiment, though it may have been a chemical defect, was a damned powerful one.

  
Didn't he deserve to love and be loved, as much as anyone else? Didn't he at least deserve to try?

  
“Tonight,” Sherlock announced to the empty flat. “Tonight I will tell John of my feelings for him, and hope that he reciprocates...and that, if he does not, he will not leave me.” He didn't know what he would do if John left 221B entirely.

  
Of course, he wasn't going into this completely devoid of reasons why it was conceivable that John would return his feelings. Just the previous week, John had fallen on some gravel near a train station while they'd been investigating a case. Sherlock had tended to his injuries, cleaning and bandaging the cuts on his legs, and there had been a moment of...rather intimate eye contact. Perhaps Sherlock was reading too much into it out of hopefulness, but naturally, he preferred to think that that was not the case.

  
He'd seen John's pupils dilate in that moment. In fact, he'd seen them dilate before that in a few different moments when he and John had looked at each other for too long. He wasn't particularly adept at reading body language, but he knew that glances were supposed to be signs of interest, or affection at the very least. Sherlock knew that John had some type of affection for him, the issue was only whether that interest was of the romantic variety or not.

  
Sherlock sighed deeply, deciding that he was just wasting energy worrying about it now. He'd find out later, when he asked John about it. Which he would definitely be doing that day.

  
“Oh, for God's sake,” he realized suddenly. “I'm nervous.”

  
Sherlock rarely, if ever, got nervous. He simply wasn't emotionally invested enough in most people that he worried about saying anything in particular to them. But somehow, it was different with John. Everything was different with John.

  
Sherlock might hate that, but he couldn't. It was incredibly irritating, but he liked John too much to hate it. He had trouble hating anything about John Watson.


	2. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes the plunge and tells John how he feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone reading this fic! I think I've kept you all waiting long enough :). Enjoy the new chapter and don't forget to leave a comment!

Sherlock’s gifts were many, and among them was his ability to remain in the same position for a very long period of time. It was perhaps one of his less-impressive talents, but for some reason, people were always astounded by it, and John Watson was by far Sherlock’s favorite person to astound. He always had the loveliest reactions, some of which involved the praise that Sherlock craved, both in general and, a bit embarrassingly, from John in particular. It was for this reason that Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a tiny, involuntary smile when he was still lying on the couch as he’d been nearly all day when the door clicked open and an even, military tread on the floor signaled John’s return home from the surgery.

  
Sherlock, again involuntarily, smiled a bit more when he thought about the fact that he and John called the same place home.

  
Bloody hell, it was utterly ridiculous how smitten he was. Where had all this sentiment come from?

  
“Sherlock, you’re smiling. What’s happened?”

  
Damn. Sherlock resisted the impulse to hastily remove the smile from his face. That would be suspicious. He didn’t open his eyes, either; they were, after all, the windows to the soul, and he wasn’t quite ready for John to look through that particular window, since he still hadn't quite decided how best to broach the subject of his feelings.

  
“Whatever do you mean, John?” the detective asked mildly, a bit surprised that John hadn’t assumed he was asleep. The doctor had apparently become accustomed to seeing Sherlock’s characteristic thinking pose.

  
“Is everything…alright?”

  
“Of course. People smile due to happiness, do they not?”

  
“Most people, but you’re not most people, as you’re so fond of reminding everyone. Usually when you smile it means there’s been a murder.”

  
“And why does there having been a murder preclude my being happy?”

  
“So there _has_ been a murder?”

  
“Not that I’m aware of, unfortunately. Why, have you heard something?”

  
John made a half-amused, half-exasperated noise. “No,” he said.

  
“Pity,” said Sherlock.

This time, John actually chuckled. Sherlock heard him open and close a cabinet, then open the fridge before saying “Listen, I’m starving. If I make spaghetti, will you eat some?”

“I suppose.”

“Will you or won’t you, Sherlock?”

  
“I will,” Sherlock responded. He wasn’t on a case, after all, and he hadn’t eaten anything since the previous day, so it couldn’t hurt. Besides, though he’d never actually said so, he liked it when John cooked. It wasn’t just because John was a reasonably good cook; there was also the fact that Sherlock liked the feeling that John was doing something for him; thinking of him. It reminded him that John cared. The only thing that remained to be seen was how much, and in what way.

  
Perhaps that was how he’d bring up the subject. He’d give John a compliment. Sherlock so rarely gave compliments that John would have to know there was something of importance that needed to be discussed.

  
Sherlock sighed, wishing for a nicotine patch. He opened his eyes, but continued to lay on the couch as the sounds of John cooking echoed from the kitchen.

* * *

 

“I’m not going to bring it to you, you know.”

  
The curt but good-humored remark from John snapped Sherlock out of the reverie he’d fallen into while the doctor had been cooking. He listened as his flatmate placed two bowls on the table.

  
“Very well,” said Sherlock. He was both pleased by his ability to maintain his usual control when talking to John and annoyed beyond belief that he’d ever had reason to doubt that ability. “Will you at least get me a drink?”

  
“What do you want? If it’s tea you can jolly well put water on to boil yourself.”

“Just water is fine, thanks. Preferably at drinkable temperature as opposed to boiling.”

“Now that, I suppose I can do for you.”

As John filled a glass with water, Sherlock got up off the couch and made his way across the flat to the kitchen. He sat down, and when John sat down across from him, he knew he couldn’t avoid telling him what had been on his mind all day. Sherlock could appreciate aesthetic attractiveness as well as anyone else, thank you very much, even if he didn’t pursue sexual or romantic relationships. However, until that moment, he’d never looked at a person and thought they were beautiful before. It went beyond aesthetics; for the first time, Sherlock found someone beautiful in every way possible.

He’d always thought the military haircut suited John; he was glad he hadn’t let it grow out after he’d been discharged from the army. John had a rather pleasant face as well, and eyes that seemed to change color more frequently than it should be possible for eyes to do. Sherlock would have been lying if he claimed that he hadn’t admired John’s body from time to time, too; the man may have strayed a bit from his military form, but not so much that it couldn’t be easily remedied if John ever decided to return to the field. Beyond the physical, though, John seemed to embody a certain contradiction that Sherlock found rather fascinating: John could be fierce and kill ruthlessly when he deemed it necessary (case in point: the cabbie who had very nearly gotten Sherlock to swallow a pill that may have proven fatal; occasionally it still drove Sherlock mad that he’d never found out whether he’d won that particular game) but he was also much, much kinder than Sherlock could ever hope to be. It was the difference between them; differences again, that was the point that Sherlock kept coming back to. Were they so different, were their personalities and characters so disparate, that a relationship between them was doomed before it had even begun?

There was an even bigger, somehow even more painful question in addition to that one: could Sherlock deserve someone like John?

It didn’t matter, Sherlock decided, as he took his first bite of John’s spaghetti, watching discreetly as John spun some noodles around his own fork. He had to tell him; there wasn’t a choice. Sherlock had long since passed the point where he could have chosen differently.

After they’d been eating in silence for a few minutes, John looking at the paper but not appearing to actually read it, Sherlock finally put his plan (if one could call it that) into action: “This is very good, John.”

John looked up, surprise showing in his eyes (which at the moment appeared to be somewhere between green and gray). “Thank you,” he said. “I’m glad you like it. Well, I’m glad you’re eating.”

Sherlock turned the words over in his mind. Not just the words, but the tone, the speed at which John had spoken, the body language. John’s hand had clenched slightly on the paper, as if he was nervous about his response, there had definitely been a bit of hesitation before he’d spoken, as if he’d been surprised by the praise, and the last sentence had had an air of being rather hastily tacked on, as if he wanted to get back into more comfortable territory; in this case, commenting on Sherlock’s irregular eating habits. All of it combined into what, to Sherlock, seemed a rather promising mixture. He reminded himself that it was very much within the realm of possibility--if not probability--that John felt more than friendship for him as well.

“I like it when you cook,” Sherlock continued, wanting to gauge John’s reaction to a further compliment.

Sherlock wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it himself: John actually blushed. “I--good,” he stammered, and then focused his eyes--though clearly not his attention--back on the paper.

This strategy was turning out to be surprisingly effective. John was clearly flustered; disproportionately so. Sherlock’s heart rate had undeniably risen, both from hope and from nerves.

Sherlock cleared his throat. This was important; his voice had to be clear. This needed to be heard. “John?” he said.

John looked up instantly, before Sherlock had even fully finished saying his name.

Sherlock bit his lip, buying himself one final second before he finally said it: “John, I do believe I’m interested in you. Romantically, I mean. What’s your opinion?”


	3. Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, so I totally abandoned this story for quite a while, and just now decided to come back to it. For those of you who were already subscribed (you're all awesome, btw) I certainly hope I was able to deliver. For the rest...welcome, and enjoy!  
> In which Sherlock and John do something crazy: talk about feelings!! 
> 
> -Julia
> 
> P.S. If you'd like to know more about what happened after the train station incident, it's all in my fic "The Little Touches" :)

John positively froze, his eyebrows shooting up as his fingers clenched reflexively on the newspaper. “You...” he swallowed, licked his lips, opened and closed his eyes. “You... _romantic_?” he sputtered, evidently short-circuited by Sherlock's pronouncement.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, romantic,” he said. “Trust me, I'm as surprised as you are, but it can no longer be denied.”

John laid the paper down flat on the table. Sherlock saw his Adam's apple shift as he cleared his throat, and he thought about how much he'd like to run his fingers, ever so gently, over that lightly tanned neck. “As surprised as I am?” John repeated, almost to himself, his voice rising in a question. A slightly amused half-smile touched his mouth. “I don't think so.” His hands twitched with what looked like an involuntary motion, as if he wanted to do something with them— _like touch Sherlock_ —but then he let them fall into his lap, as if he couldn't quite figure out how to move them to where he wanted them to be. “I don't even...how? I thought you were 'married to your work', and all that rubbish. You're the one who's always saying how silly that sort of thing is...”

“And meaning every word of it,” Sherlock interrupted. “The desire for a romantic relationship with another person is caused by the right mixture of chemicals in the brain, and nothing more. I know that better than most; hell, I could draw you a diagram of what my brain chemistry looks like every time I think about you, if you fancied. It's just chemistry, and I know that, and I've thought about it time and time again, and I've come to the conclusion that, at least when it comes to you, I can't be arsed to care.” He sat back in his chair after this speech, watching John's face for a reaction.

John looked stunned again. An agonizingly slow moment passed before he shifted, running a hand through his hair. “You've been thinking about this,” he said. “And that means...how long have you felt like this?”

Sherlock very nearly rolled his eyes. “ _Ages_ ,” he said. “It's been bloody annoying. I tried to tell myself it was just a passing infatuation, and that I'd eventually go back to normal, but it doesn't seem to be happening. Honestly, if this is what romantic interest always feels like, I can't fathom how you go on as many dates as you do. It's extraordinarily distracting.”

“Why haven't you deleted it, so?” John asked, a little challenge in his eyes. It occurred to Sherlock that his reluctance to experience romantic desire for John might not be encouraging to the other man, so he decided to soften his approach. He needed to try and move past the logical, chemical explanations behind these emotions.

Sherlock would be the first to admit that he could be an arrogant prat at times, but he was not so arrogant that he was above accepting that there were some realms into which science did not stray, which logic could not penetrate. He didn't like those areas; they were murky and confusing, but if John inhabited them, and he wanted John, then he would have to venture into them. He sucked in a breath.

“Because if I delete it,” he said softly, “it'll take away the best parts of some of my memories with you. It'll render them ordinary. I don't want that.”

“Ordinary,” John repeated, his tone skeptical.

“Well, as ordinary as anything can be where I'm concerned.” Sherlock clasped his hands atop the table. “Don't nitpick, John. I'm baring my soul here.”

“Right.” John bit his lower lip, letting it slide between his teeth, not missing the way Sherlock's eyes followed the motion. His hand twitched again, and this time, he brought himself to pick it up, reach over, and lay it on top of Sherlock's. At John's touch, Sherlock tensed, but in surprise rather than distaste. Slowly, he turned his hand over so that he was palm-to-palm with John. “So?” he asked. “What's your opinion?” It was almost embarassing how eager he was to hear John's answer. His whole body felt on edge with impatience and nerves.

John looked up into Sherlock's eyes. “Tell me what you mean,” he said, needing more information to understand this wildly unanticipated development before he could answer Sherlock's question. “About the memories, I mean.”

Sherlock thought for a moment about where he ought to begin. “Do you remember a few weeks ago, when you fell while we were investigating that train station?”

John nodded.

“Well. Obviously I cleaned your cuts because I didn't wish for you to contract an infection, but I realized later that I had another motive, as well. I wanted to touch you. I nearly always want to touch you, actually. It's almost like a compulsion. I don't expect that sort of feeling comes without emotional attachment, at least, not for me.”

John scraped his thumb along the back of Sherlock's hand, in a motion that was half nervous twitch and half careful stroke. “And here I thought I was the only one wishing you wouldn't stop,” he said quietly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “You wanted me to touch you?”

“Despite my protests, I did.” Experimentally, John laced his fingers through Sherlock's, so that they were properly holding hands. “You're right about romantic attraction, you know,” he went on. “It can be a bloody nuisance. You are one of the most infuriating people I have ever met, but I want to do everything with you anyway. I think I told you that that day before we went to the train station, actually.”

Something seemed to dawn on Sherlock at that. “You said you'd go nearly anywhere with me.”

“I would.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, before Sherlock continued: “So you see, if I deleted my feelings for you, then a fundamental component of a cherished memory would be gone. While I was tending to your cuts, I felt this amazing sort of...I don't know, affection toward you. I felt protective, and calm, and I don't think I've ever cared for someone so much. The intensity of the feeling was...well, it _is_ , startling to me, but it's also deeply pleasurable, and I'd rather it remained in my memories.” He shrugged, hoping he was expressing himself accurately.

John blinked. “So, what is it that you want?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. He didn't know. He couldn't tell. His experience with these feelings was far too limited, not to mention the fact that his mind was still reeling from the newly-discovered fact that John returned at least some of those feelings. And so, he decided just to request the thing he most desired in that particular moment: “I want to hold you. Will you let me?”

John's entire face softened. “Yes,” he said quietly.

Together, they stood up, still holding hands, and moved to the couch. There was a moment of indecision as to how they should position themselves, during which they stared at each other and John chuckled under his breath. Eventually, Sherlock sat, and John settled into the circle of his arms, placing his head on the taller man's shoulder. At first, both were stiff and awkward, but then John relaxed, allowing his weight to rest against Sherlock. In response, Sherlock tightened his grip slightly, breathing in John's scent and enjoying his warmth as he struggled with his logical brain, trying to bring it up to speed with all that he was feeling and to understand that _this was happening, this was really happening._ John Watson was lying in his arms, and he was doing it because he wanted to. The thought was such a good one that Sherlock, without really thinking about it, turned his face and pressed a kiss into John's blond military-style hair.

John raised his face to look at Sherlock, and Sherlock felt that pleasant, oddly fluttery feeling he recalled from the day at the train station and a hundred other days with John. “I could never wish this deleted,” he said softly.

John smiled. “Good.” He sat up slightly, his gaze flickering to Sherlock's mouth. A wave of anticipation shot through Sherlock.

“Can I...?”

“ _Yes_.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly. Careful. He had to be careful. This was the beginning of something important. There would be no hard edge, just infinite care and gentleness, as if he were tending to a cut again.

He leaned forward. So did John. Their lips touched.

Sherlock was not in the habit of kissing people, and he wasn't quite sure how this was supposed to go, so he didn't move his mouth at first. He just parted his lips slightly, letting them form to John's, as John kissed him. With his eyes closed, though, Sherlock had to rely on feeling, and he noted the subtle shift of John's lips as he opened his mouth to claim Sherlock's in a second chaste, tender kiss. As soon as he felt that, Sherlock followed suit, kissing back slowly and gently.

Sherlock's heart hammered in his chest and everything felt curiously light and surreal as he and John kissed, their lips moving in and out without ever separating completely. Sherlock catalogued his body's reactions, from the banal to the almost-transcendental: gradually hardening penis, elevated pulse, rapidly beating heart that seemed to be spreading warmth through his veins, an urge to wrap John in his arms and hold on until he couldn't anymore, and a powerful stirring in his chest that he could only guess was the beginning of a headlong plunge into love.

Eventually he felt John's hand come up to rest on his neck, and Sherlock gave in to the desire to hold the other man, reaching out and pulling him close as he continued to kiss him, his lips becoming more confident and eager. John moaned slightly, and Sherlock couldn't help smiling against his mouth as his arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck. When eventually they broke away, they were both panting and smiling like utter fools.

Ordinarily, Sherlock would hate doing anything that made him appear any sort of fool at all, but today, he didn't care. Everything, after all, was different with John, and Sherlock wouldn't have deleted it for the world.


End file.
